


Mind Under Matter

by RibbonsInHerHair



Category: Dredd (2012)
Genre: Some Non-Con Mind Fucking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 03:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11027820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RibbonsInHerHair/pseuds/RibbonsInHerHair
Summary: Six months after Peach Trees, Anderson finds herself in another drug bust gone wrong. Sex Pollen trope with a twist!





	1. Chapter 1

_Perpetrators: The Red Hand, aka the Reds, aka the Red Shadow._

_Suspected Head: John Sykes, aka Syko._

_Location: Sector 3, headquarters believed to be in Block Titan, Levels 120-143._

_Contraband in Circulation: Affirmed._

_Contraband in Question: Porosofynol, aka “Haze”, aka “Aphro”._

_Manner of Use: Inhalation or sublingual administration._

_Judgment for distribution and/or manufacture of Contraband in Question: 30 years in Isocubes._

_Effects: Strong-_

“Another report, Anderson? Didn’t take you for the studious type.”

Judge Anderson looked up from the report she was flicking through. “Better the enemy you know than the one you don’t, Judge Samuels,” she replied to the more senior Judge. “The more I know about the perps, the less they can surprise me on the streets.”

“Can’t you just read their minds?”

Anderson paused, wary. She was still getting used to people in her division –or anyone for that matter- knowing about her abilities. “Hard to read minds when the bullets are flying.”

Samuels considered that, leaning against the small corner of her desk not littered with report holo-discs, his ever present easy smile in place.

 “You just need more practice, then. How many times you been in the streets, Anderson?”

She looked down. “Four times, sir. Not including my field evaluation.”

Samuels shot her a surprised expression. “Four times? You’ve been a Judge for nearly six months.” He smiled again, “And your evaluation will go down in Judge history, if I’m not mistaken.”

Anderson repressed a grimace. Samuels was a friendly superior, a rare thing among the Street Judges, and what from what she heard a good leader, but he was unfortunately the conversational type.

He had insisted on coming by her desk every few days, making small talk, to “welcome her into the division,” he’d said.

“My powers are not entirely combat ready, sir. Like I said, I can’t read minds and dodge bullets all at once. I need a partner with me at all times.”

“What, any time you patrol?”

“Chief’s orders.”

“Huh. We’re already spread thin on the ground; finding a partner must be tough.”

“Exactly.”

Samuel s grinned again, the skin around his eyes crinkling good naturedly.  “Well, you’re in luck Anderson. I go on patrol at 1300.” He leaned forward, plucking the report disc from her hands and giving it a little shake. “And I’m in the mood for some drug dealing perps.”

* * *

 

They sped down the Judges’ Lane on Meg-Way 900, the fifteen lanes of traffic whizzing by in a haze of exhaust smoke and smog. She could just make out the shapes of people inside the cars, the roar of their collective droning thoughts a small ache in the back of her head, even with her helmet on.  Anderson was grateful when she finally saw the Sector Exit, her Lawmaster humming as she took the ramp. Samuels’ bike passing to her right, and she saw the white flash of his teeth when he grinned.

Anderson shook her head. When she had been a cadet, the Judges had been their unforgiving teachers, beating the lessons into them mercilessly. It was only after a Judge made it to the ranks, she realized, was camaraderie encouraged. Even then, though, Peach Trees made her think that all Judges would be like Dredd.

But there were no other Judges like Dredd.

They pulled up to the crumbling curb inside the massive shadow of Titan. Anderson looked up at it; the dim sun entirely blotted out from this angle by its hulking shape. It reminded her of her childhood block – grim and grey and uncomfortably close to the Wall.

“Samuels to Control. Be advised, Judges Samuels and Anderson have arrived at Titan, 1340.”

The calm, professional voice of Control crackled back over his comm. “ _Roger that.”_

Samuels turned to Anderson. “Alright. We go through the lower levels, clearing out the dens. Should be just minimal security and junks, quick in-and-out. The only thing we have to be careful of is the drug.”

Anderson frowned. “I thought Aphro is smoked.”

Samuels laughed. “Yeah, but these perps like to smoke it off the air, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“The dens are usually hot boxed. I caught some perps on the stuff before and they said it adds a little kick to the experience.” Even under his helmet, Anderson could tell he was rolling his eyes. “You need to get out more, Anderson. The kids are doing crazy things these days.”

 “You inhaled it? Pretty sure drug use is 2 years in the ‘cubes, Sir,” Anderson retorted, annoyed.

“Nah not me, mostly everyone got their respirators on in time. The Judge leading point got a face full of the stuff, though.” Samuels paused getting of his Lawmaker and snickered. “That was a sight. You should read the report he had to write. Hilarious.”

Anderson didn’t bother asking, because she had been trying to read that report when he’d interrupted. Instead she strode off her own bike, moving toward the looming metal blast doors of Titan.

The civilians eyed them nervously, stepping quickly out of their way. They all had the hunted look of poverty in their faces, though some clearly made an effort to keep their worn clothes clean and their hair washed and neat. Anderson swallowed – one such woman, anxiously pulling her daughter toward the street and away from their path looked so much like her own mother that she felt her stomach tighten. Others milling around were covered in filth, their hair matted around their hair, their lips cracked from dehydration – junks, probably, that had spent their water ration credits on drugs. And then there were a few who glared openly as Anderson and Samuels cut past the blast doors and into the first floor courtyard. These ones, she noticed, were hard; they weren’t so emaciated as the general population, with muscles ridging their arms and tattoos ringing their necks.

“Sir, what are the gang tats used by the Reds?” She asked.

“Red handprint on the upper bicep – not original at all, if you ask me – or maybe a red scythe. Sometimes they’ll have a hand around the throat, fingerprints usually over the windpipe and the palm wrapping around the nape,” Samuels replied easily, looking in the same direction as she was and watching as the gang members melted into the grimy alleys of the block.

 Anderson had to give it to him; of any Judge she had met so far, Samuels was by far the best at knowing gang affiliations and symbols.

He saw her look at grinned. “Impressed, Rookie?”

She just barely stopped herself from pulling a face at her superior officer. “Not bad, Sir.”

“I’ll take it.” He moved purposefully toward the elevators. “Let’s head up, get this done with. We don’t want to be on the Reds’ turf too long or they’ll start thinking they can take us and that the junker floors are actually important to defend.”

“Shouldn’t we head to the top, get the gang at its source, Sir? If they’re the suppliers and manufacturers, they’re even guiltier than the users.”

“Be realistic, Anderson. Going in guns blazing, cowboy style? That’s just a good way to get us killed.” Samuels answered, a note of gravity creeping into his tone for the first time. “Judges are losing the war against crime and getting killed by overreaching isn’t going to help anyone.”

Anderson stayed silent.

_“You’re giving us two options –defend or hide.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“What about we attack? Head straight for Ma-Ma.”_

_“Is that an option?”_

_“Well - she’s guilty; we’re Judges.”_

_“Sir, with backup inbound, I think we should wait until the odds have shifted in our favor…” She’d paused when he didn’t answer. “Wrong answer?”_

_“You’re the psychic.”_

They stepped into the elevator. It was lit up by two old-school florescent bulbs, one of which was flickering badly. Samuels knocked the button for the 120th floor, leaning in to study the gang graffiti on the panel. The rusty box shuddered once and started to ascend slowly, creaking in protest. Generic jazz started to play through the speaker above the buttons, tinny and not just a little bit grating.

“So what do you do for fun, Anderson?” Samuels asked.  She raised an eyebrow. “I sleep, sir. Feels like I can never get enough of it these days.”

“Even without patrols?”

Anderson shrugged one shoulder. “I still pull long shifts at HQ. And I have a lot to do - read up on reports, spar with the other new recruits, practice with my…my powers, things like that.”

Samuels frowned. “Geez, Anderson. Aren’t you 21? Go have a drink with friends or something. The Hall of Justice will wear you down soon enough. No need to do it for them.”

“I manage just fine, sir.” She didn’t tell him that the last time she went to a bar she had fainted. She had been 18, and the roiling, hazy overflow of the other patrons thoughts had made her so sick she blacked out before even touching liquor. She was a bit older now, and a Judge, but she wasn’t excited to test it out again.

“You know, I worry about you, Anderson.” Samuels shook his head, the frizzing florescent glinting off his visor. “You’re too serious.”

“With all due respect, sir, taking my job seriously keeps me alive.”

Samuels huffed a laugh. “Taking it seriously can get you dead just as easy.”

“Judge Dredd seems to manage,” she blurted out.

Samuels gave her a long look. “Yeah, well, Dredd isn’t your average guy.”

Anderson lifted her chin. “Neither am I.”

Samuels opened his mouth to respond, but the elevator bell dinged, and the doors squeaked open. “Let’s go, Rookie,” he said, pulling his Lawgiver from his holster, the DNA scanner firing up. “We’ve got a job to do.”

It took them all of three minutes to locate the direction of the first den. The thudding bass was their first clue, the huge red hand painted on the southwest wing entrance way was the second. They moved in, Samuels on point and Anderson guarding the rear. The music grew louder as they made their way into the dim hallways, the beat grinding into Anderson’s bones.

Samuels lifted a fist to stop her as they crossed in front of a dark hallway that turned off the main one. He bent down to examine some trash littered on the dirty cement, pausing for a long moment. He hooked it with one finger and lifted it, smirking as he turned to show her.

It was a woman’s bra, torn down the center, the clasps still done up. Anderson stared.

_What the hell…?_

_“_ We’re getting close.”

The farther down the narrow hallway they went, the filthier it seemed to get. There was heavy graffiti, the grey floor under their boots was sticky, and the air was rapidly becoming more rancid. The music was pounding in Anderson’s head, causing her to grip her Lawgiver a bit tighter.

Samuels stopped them again in front of Apartment 131B, the nondescript door fairly rattling in its frame. Anderson felt her heartbeat pick up, the anticipation of a fight lighting up her senses.

“A word to the wise, Anderson; stay out of their heads – trust me, you do not wanna be in these junks’ thoughts.”

 Anderson was about to ask why, but Samuels was already putting his respirator in as he moved, his boot crashing through the apartment’s flimsy door not a second later.

She followed suit, slipping the breathing apparatus around her mouth and nose and raising her gun as she stepped in behind him, registering the sharp crack as Samuels dispatched the guards.

First thing she registered was the haze, a greenish tinged smog the stung her eyes.

The second thing she registered was the orgy.

There were people –junkies – on every surface; the floor, the ratty couches, up against the walls, and they were all rutting like animals.

She stared, the respirator almost falling out of her slack, shocked mouth. The blaring music was just barely covering up the sounds of the writhing sea of people, moans and screams and unbelievable profanities . There were other noises too; the slapping of skin on skin, the squelch of body fluid, the creaking of furniture. They were so lost in their own pleasures that the drugged up citizens didn’t even register that two Judges had burst into their midst.

 Most of them were completely naked, too; the dim lighting just enough to give Anderson a sudden and horrifyingly explicit lesson in what the human body looked like having sex.

Samuels elbowed her, hard, and pointed to the couple nearest her. She watched dumbfounded as he turned to his own targets, and ripped them off each other. The man spun, his shirt (already hanging open) tearing in Samuels’ fist.  His eyes were completely unfocused and wild as he grabbed for Samuels’ belt, pressing himself close. Samuels brought a prompt end to the attempt with the butt of his Lawgiver to the junk’s temple. He looked back up at Anderson, and motioned for her to get going.

She holstered her Lawgiver –these junks weren’t a threat in their state – and thanked whatever gods there were that she was wearing gloves as she forcibly separated two naked women grinding into each other. She cuffed them both to the radiator, dodging their attempts to wrap themselves around her, their legs falling open shamelessly. She grit her teeth and moved onto the next one – a completely naked Latino man dripping with sweat lapping eagerly at a moaning woman who was alternating between fondling her own breasts and reaching down to rip at her partner’s hair.

It took half an hour to get to them all.

Half an hour that Anderson was sure scarred her far worse than anything she had dealt with in Peach Trees. In fact, she was feeling sure she’d rather have another bullet in her side than have to arrest another slimy, wriggling, completely horny drug addict.

They stepped into the hall once all the perps were cuffed and relatively subdued. Samuels pulled out his respirator, a shit-eating grin already in place. “That was a nice left hook you executed on that perp with the dreads, Anderson. He was out cold.”

“He grabbed my chest, sir.” Anderson shuddered. “That whole situation was horrible. Why didn’t you warn me?”

Samuels laughed out loud this time. “My policy is to throw the rookies in the deep end. You either sink or you swim.”

“Or,” Anderson retorted, her nerves frayed past correct conduct, “You just wanted to have some fun.”

“Who, me?” Samuels clapped a hand on her shoulder, leaning in so she could see him wink through the helmet. “Come on, we’ve got to call it in and keep heading up.”

“Up?” Anderson could just feel the thousand yard stare forming on her face.

“Oh, yeah. Five more floors, kid.”

The second floor was equally bad – the perps were younger though, teenagers just stupid enough to think it would be exciting to walk the edge between drug addiction and recreation.

A girl no older than fifteen and still in her school uniform had rubbed herself frantically against the support pole Anderson had cuffed her to, begging for sex, tears of frustration leaking from her eyes.

“It hurts them, after a while,” Samuels told her on the elevator ride to the next floor. “Orgasm releases hormones that neutralize the chemicals in their system, brings them down from the high. Coming off it slowly – well, apparently it’s not the fun time these punks are looking for.”

By the third floor, Anderson was more or less numb to the naked flesh and harsh sounds, though she still flushed when a junkie her age pleaded to put his face between her legs and “show her heaven.”

She slapped him with an extra six months for aggressive speech toward a Judge. _For fuck’s sake!_ She’d fumed silently in her head once they were back in the safety of the elevator. She’d never even seen porn before (prohibited at the Academy, also heavily regulated by law), so being tossed into this roiling storm of sex dens was scraping her nerves down to dust.

LINE BREAK

The fourth floor was the sweatiest by far and the dirtiest. The room was hot as an oven, and everything was covered with black plastic, even the windows. There was one woman servicing twenty men, and the ones that weren’t getting any action at the moment were either touching themselves or touching each other. It was raw and animalistic and the most sexual thing she’d ever seen in her short years, including the last three floors. Even with her mind focused on her job, Anderson couldn’t help but feel a stab of low heat in her belly. She bashed it down brutally.

The man currently thrusting into the woman had his muscled back to her, her legs clinging to his hips. Anderson removed her Lawgiver from her belt, manually setting it to Stun.

She preferred to order perps to surrender before she used violence, but with her respirator in, she didn’t have that option.

She fired, the Stun Slug spreading ripples of electricity over his body, making his muscles convulse.

She expected him to slump over, unconscious. She expected him at the very least to be immobilized.

She did not expect him to jump to his feet, howling like a beast, and tackle her at the knees. She fired off another shot but the unexpected attack knocked her aim off, and the bullet went careening into the ceiling.

“-pretty little Judge, gonna taste so good, gonna feel so good around my cock-“

He was snarling and spitting obscenities into her face, his eyes half-mad with lust.

She struggled, ramming her knees into his sides, but he was huge and strong and the Aphro in his system must have shut off his pain receptors, because he wasn’t even flinching at her blows.

His thoughts crashed into her mind, his proximity driving them like a nail beneath a hammer into her skull. _He was fucking the female Judge, her mouth open and twisted in pain, her eyes full of tears and fear-he wanted to make her bleed-_

Then Samuels was there, hauling the man away, crushing his neck in a brutal headlock.

Anderson jumped up after them, a second before the already mangled door crashed open behind her.

“You motherfuckers!”

“Kill the fucking Judges!”

“Syko!”

She whirled and got off three shots before the gang members lifted their weapons, the men crashing to their knees in pain.

The chaos was too much even for the Aphro addled junks to ignore. They moved forward as one, screaming wordlessly, hands scrabbling at her uniform. She dropped the closest one with a brutal kick to his naked groin, and shot two more.

The Lawmaker beeped ominously; empty on Stun ammo.

 _Shit Shit Shit._ She couldn’t give a voice command to change the setting with a respirator in, and neither did she have a second to change it manually.

She exploded into action, attacking the naked aggressors with her fists and her boots and the butt of her gun. The Red Hand members were ignoring her for now, leaving her to the junks while they went for Samuels.

Through the naked bodies she could see him grappling with the huge gang member, his gun hand mangled.

One of the junks grabbed her by the hair, yanking down viciously so he could snarl into her face, “Suck my cock, princess.” Anderson head butted him, the crack of his nose reverberating above the din.

The second one went down, however, there seemed to be another to take his place. They were surrounding her, ripping at her armor, hair and skin, not seeming to feel the pain that she was dealing them.

And they weren’t getting tired either. She swung and kicked, her muscles getting perilously heavy. One of them went low, and made a grab for her boot. She dodged, barely, but was thrown off balance.

The junks saw the opportunity and took it.

They swarmed her all at once, a wall of flesh and howling sound. They dragged her down underneath them, tearing with a frenzy into her armor and clothes, holding her down, spreading her legs.

Fear sparked through her.

She managed to tear one arm lose from their grip and ripped her respirator out. “Incendiary!” she screamed, and pulled the trigger. The flares ricocheted off the narrow walls, the black plastic trash bags taped there bursting into flames. Men were screaming, too, the burning shrapnel melting the skin off their bones. The pressure holding her down immediately disappeared.

Anderson leaped up, jumping over convulsing, burning bodies to Samuels’ position. The smoke from the blast and the fires made it impossible to see three feet in front of her.

Something burned in her throat as well, something sickly sweet. _The Aphro._

“10-24!” She shouted into her comm as she searched for Samuels in the bedlam. “Judges under fire! Requesting immediate back-up to my GPS.”

“Affirmative. Back-up to your position confirmed, five minutes.”

“Samuels!” Anderson yelled, dodging the spasming body of a bloody, charred Red.

A heavy hand shot out of the smog and grabbed her shoulder. “Standard!” she shouted, aiming.

And almost shot Samuels in the chest. He fell heavily against her, nearly knocking her off her feet. Again. She steadied him with her free hand, and immediately noticed the sticky wetness under her fingers. He was wounded.

 “Let’s get out of here.” She half dragged Samuels’ body out of the pandemonium and into the hallway. “We have to make it back to the main elevator.”

“Not the elevator,” he wheezed as she pulled him down a side hallway. “That’ll be the first place they look for us. The second it passes one of their floors, they’ll put enough bullets in it to take out a gorilla.” He groaned as she staggered a little under his weight. “We’ll be like sitting ducks.”

“Samuels, stop talking.” Anderson grit out. “Anymore words and your wound is gonna get worse.”

“Worse…Fuck!…worse ways to die.”

“No one is dying today.”

She hustled them down three more corridors, expanding her mind across the block level, checking for pursuit.

They were coming all right. Their minds were baying for some Judges’ blood. _Wanted to kill the fuckers who burst in on their turf, attacked their boss, killed their comrades._

“We gotta get out of sight.”

She pressed her mind into the apartment closest to them. Three minds inside. The next one had four. The third one down was empty. _Jackpot._

She slid Samuels down the wall. He groaned at the movement, the visible skin of his face pale, his mouth drawn tight in a grimace.

Anderson slid a bobby pin out of her hair. Sometimes the locks on the poorer levels were old and had simple mechanisms. She jiggled the pin in the door, hoping.

The gang members were audible now even to her ears. “Where those pigs at!? Syko wants ‘em alive!”

“Anderson,” Samuels muttered.

“I know, I hear!” She twisted the pin in the keyhole.

The lock clicked open. “Yes!”

She hoisted Samuels, shoving him inside and shutting the door behind them. Not a second too late; the heavy stomp of the Reds sounded outside as they sat crouched against the frame, holding their breath.

When she was sure they’d gone, Anderson lifted Samuels again by the arms and helped him stagger into one of the tiny bedrooms. He collapsed on the bed, face twisted with pain. “Think these people will be back soon?”

Anderson shook her head as she carefully unzipped his armor and the uniform underneath. “On vacation.”

“That’s incredible that you can tell that with your mind.”

“Thanks, Samuels, but actually I just noticed that they have a lot of old unopened mail by the door. “ The bullet wound looked pretty nasty; it had gone through his back, just underneath his armpit, probably ricocheted off a rib, and had come out the right side of his chest.  She wondered how much internal damage there was. The hand was bad, too – at least three broken fingers, the skin torn open. It looked like that giant –Syko-had gotten ahold of them with his teeth when they were fighting. She set to field dressing the wound, swabbing it down and stapling it shut. She splinted the fingers as best she could. “Lucky I didn’t set you on fire.”

“Heh. Nice one, Anderson. Too bad that stunt came with inhaling a shit-ton of Aphro.”

She’d forgotten. “I have six and a half minutes before it kicks in, sir. Back-up should be here before then.”

“Sorry ‘bout this, Anderson. Who would have thought the one day we pick to do a routine cleanup of the low-level dens is the same day the boss decides to patronize his own establishment?” He grinned half-heartedly, his lips ashen. “You ever break a mirror, Anderson? You seem to be good at getting into situations.”

“Not that I know of, Sir. I’m just naturally lucky that way.”

“Well, bad luck has to run out sometime. When back up comes, make sure ya tell ‘em…tell’m to -” Samuels’s words slurred for a second, before his helmeted head went limp, consciousness finally abandoning him.

Anderson was left in silence, her heartbeat thudding in her chest, the gravity of the situation suddenly much more suffocating.

Should she knock herself out before they arrived? No, the back-up would just revive her. She looked at her watch. Five minutes, twenty seconds since she’d made the call. Time was running out. Should she tell the back-up to knock her out? That might work. 

Five minutes, thirty seconds. Her head was feeling fuzzy. _Fuck! Keep it together, Cassie._

She stood up and paced. She hoped it was a female Judge. It somehow seemed less embarrassing to say _, Hey, I accidentally inhaled a bunch of aphrodisiac narcotics, please knock my lights out before I try to fuck you!_ to a fellow woman colleague than a male one.

Anderson tried to control her breathing. It didn’t work.

A fist pounded on the door. Relief shot through her. She moved to the door and braced herself to the side, her Lawgiver set to armor piercing. “Identify yourself.” She called.

“Dredd, Sector 13,” came the familiar growl, muffled slightly by the door. “Responding to a 10-24 of two Judges.”

The relief turned to cold horror, freezing her to the spot. There were hundreds of Judges in this sector alone. Why, why, _why_ did it have to be Dredd? She looked up to him, respected him. Didn’t want to explain to him how she ended up with sex drugs in her system and a shot up partner-

Her fingers trembled as she turned the lock, as she pulled open the door.  Five minutes, forty seconds.

Dredd stepped inside quickly, Lawgiver in hand, blood spattered across the front of his armor. “Anderson.” He didn’t sound at all surprised to see her there. “Sorry I’m late – some perps on the first level were looking to shoot up some Judges.” His voice was as rough as usual, sending shivers racing down her spine. “I’m guessing you would be the reason for that.”

He glanced around, taking in the surroundings, probably deciding if the tiny apartment was defensible.

“Sir, I-“ her voice came out as a barely a squeak.

“Where’s the other Judge? What’s his status?” Dredd asked, turning his gaze back on her, his visor gleaming even in the near black of the apartment.

“I-I need you to hit me,” Anderson stammered, ignoring his question as a terrifying rush of heat flooded her stomach. “I m-mean stun me, knock me out.”

Her watch beeped. Six minutes.

Dredd’s customary frown deepened. “Explain, Anderson.”

“Drugs!” she gasped, her legs trembling as the heat crashed through the rest of her body, tightening her nipples and tingling in her fingertips, her control slipping alarmingly.

Dredd was stepping closer, reaching to steady her. “Are you wounded?”

“No, y-you need- _oh.”_

Six minutes, thirty seconds.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The call crackled over Dredd’s comm as he wound his way on the Lawmaker toward Sector 13, fresh off a job in Sector 3. He’d dealt final judgment to three perps and arrested three more. A good end to his shift.

_“Control to all patrols. 10-24 at Titan, Sector 3. Two Judges under fire. Back-up requested.”_

He pulled a U, the wheels of his bike screeching against the asphalt. “Dredd to Control. I’m on it. ETA to Titan: two minutes.”

_“Affirmative. Patching the GPS to you now.”_

He arrived in two minutes and twenty seconds. Dredd strode in through the huge rusted iron entrance way to Titan. The courtyard was grey concrete, with vandalized park benches every few meters. A fountain dominated the center, grey and dried up with sickly green algae stains on the basin. The citizens watched him warily, their mostly dirty faces camouflaging them against the stained walls of the shops.  Dredd stopped, and checked his GPS again. Two red dots blinked inside a schematic of the block, moving west at a rapid pace. The Judges were on the move, most likely with pursuers.

He headed for the elevator. In Sector 3 blocks, the elevators were located off the main square, in the secondary corridor facing south. He turned into it, and came face to face with six gang bangers, all with pistols and semi-automatics clenched in their fists.

“Interesting,” Dredd muttered.

“Hey, pig,” the leader growled, the red handprint on his bicep jittering as he gripped his ancient Tech-9 a little harder. “We don’t like when Judges come sniffin’ around where they don’t belong.”

“That so? I don’t like when someone obstructs the Law,” Dredd replied, his snarl deepening as he slid his finger toward the trigger of his ‘Giver. “Get out of my way.”

“You blind, Judge?” The leader grinned, his front two teeth missing. Junk, probably. “We’ve got you outnumbered. And we got orders.”

If there was one thing that Dredd couldn’t stand, it was perps grandstanding. “Threatening and assaulting a Judge will get you a death sentence.”

“Not if you die first.” The gang members lifted their guns even before the leader finished speaking, but Dredd was ready. He saw the shift of their gaze, the pull of their muscles as they hoisted their weapons in his direction. Too slow.

“Manual.”

He fired three times, the first bullet tearing through the eye socket of the skinhead to the immediate left of the leader, the second thudding wetly into the sternum of the perp to his right, and the third turning their boss’s weapon hand into a pulp of bone and gristle.

The three gangbangers left had finally caught up, the noise of their shots and the screams of the head man careening off the close quarters of the grey hallway. Dredd dove to the side, tucking his shoulder and rolling smoothly to his feet, the bullets blasting chunks out of the already peeling cinderblock by his head.  He pumped the trigger – one, two, three times – and the last few of the gang buckled, gurgling around their ruptured abdominal organs.

Dredd turned toward the cowering leader, curled piteously around his mess of a hand. “You.”

“P-please,” the man whimpered.

“Save it, perp. It’s going to be life in the ‘cubes for trying to murder a Judge. That’s usually a death sentence, but you have some information that I want.” It took two strides to close the distance between them, and Dredd hauled the man up by his shirt, ignoring his cry of agony. “Where’s the Judges?”

“I don’t know! I swear!”

Dredd scowled. Perps who weren’t perfectly forthcoming were even worse pieces of scum than the average criminal. He gave the man a harsh shake, bringing his Lawgiver down on his ruined knuckles for good measure.

“Bull. Tell me where they are before I decide being lenient wasn’t a good idea.”

“I swear, I don’t know where they are!” The gangbanger shrieked. He was sweating; the shitty tattoos on his head shining with it, and his eyes were rimmed with tears. “B-but we got the call against them on the 123rd. They’re probably still up there, ‘c-cause we got guys watching the elevator shafts and we haven’t heard it go up.”

Dredd dropped him, and the man crumpled to his knees once more. “Stay put until the meat wagon picks you up, perp. You leave this spot and you’re a dead man. Got it?” The man nodded sluggishly; Dredd wasn’t worried he’d make a run for it. He probably had thirty seconds of consciousness left. Blood loss.

He pushed the up button and the doors squeaked open, revealing a thinly plated metal interior, the walls dinged and scratched from a century of use, the graffiti so thick it almost covered every inch of it. Dredd grimaced. If the gangbangers waiting outside each elevator shaft got it into their heads that they should shoot up cars going up as well as down, then the walls wouldn’t hold.

But he’d have to take his chances. He had a feeling in his gut that the Judges needed backup, now. What kind of criminal pissant had they stumbled upon that was willing to send his whole gang on a Judge hunt?

He hit the 123rd floor button, and took position in the corner behind the door.

There was no hail of bullets as the car ascended; the only sound was the feeble crackling of an old waltz over the speakers. The doors slid open slowly.

“Hey, you motherfuckers are late! We need-“

Dredd sprang into action as the young perp stuck his head into the elevator, putting a bullet between his eyes. There was shouting from the hallway and four more criminals wielding old machinery came into view.

_Amateurs._

He took them out easily, two bullets each, center mass, and one through the head to end it for sure. Textbook. The last gang member managed to get off only one bullet, whizzing high and clear, before Dredd’s ripped fist- sized holes in his chest and brain tissue.

He looked down at the GPS tracker. There was a red dot flaring four hallways down to his right. He followed the trail, sticking to the walls in case more perps came barreling down the adjacent passageways. He could hear the gang members, not far away, shouting instructions to each other, banging on doors – in pursuit.

Getting out was going to be difficult.

He stopped in front of the right door, bringing his left fist up to bang on the door.

“Identify yourself.” The voice was muffled through door.

“Dredd, Sector 13. Responding to a 10-24 of two Judges.”

There was a second of silence; a strange pause that sent the frown on is lip and the hair at his nape curling, and he was about to order them to open up when he heard the soft click of the lock sliding free.

The door swung open and he stepped in quickly –

Blonde hair confronted him, catching what little light remained in the apartment, accompanied by wide eyes and a dusting of freckles along a delicate ridge of cheekbones.

“Anderson,” he nodded at her. “Sorry I’m late – some perps on the first level were looking to shoot up some Judges. I’m guessing you would be the reason for that.”

She didn’t respond as he swept his gaze over the rest of the apartment. Not good. They were too much of a target in the tiny accommodation, with its open living space and flimsy walls and no secondary exit. They would need to move and soon.

Anderson attempted to say something, her voice hardly a whisper, but he cut her off. “Where’s the other Judge? What’s his status?” He turned his scrutiny back on her – suddenly aware that she was standing too still.

Her eyes were wild, glassy; her breathing was coming in short bursts, almost hyperventilated, and her hair was beginning to stick to the sweat collecting at her temples and throat.  Her lips trembled as she opened them – “I need you to hit me.” Her eyes darted back and forth as she took a step back, shaking her head a little and clenching her fists. “I m-mean stun me, knock me out.”

She was not making sense, and her actions were erratic. Something had happened. “Explain, Anderson.”

She babbled something about drugs, and Dredd watched as she leaned heavily into the door frame, legs visibly shaking and too weak to hold her weight.

Dredd strode forward and grabbed her by the arm, steadying her. “Are you wounded?”

But he had seen Anderson wounded before, a bullet through her side; and she had soldiered up and walked out of Peach Trees on her own two feet, with the only outward manifestation of her pain being the slight hiss and clenched jaw she had allowed herself as he patched the hole. _This is something else, something-_

She was shaking her head frantically, eyes afraid. “No, y-you need-“

And then she went still, her pupils blowing open. “Oh.”

He was about to order her to give a health report, or maybe haul her to her feet and demand that she concentrate so they could figure out the plan of action, but suddenly Dredd can’t remember because his mind was filled with _her._

She knifed her way into his mind, ripping away any other thought as easily as if she were tearing through tissue paper.

* * *

She makes it real; so unbelievably real and for the first time in his life he understands a perp, understands why the gang filth in Peach Trees had pissed himself with fear because he had believed-

She infects his mind in a way that makes it impossible to tell reality from fiction; so that he sees his own hand reaching out to fist in her blonde hair, pushing her roughly to her knees as she eagerly fumbles for his belt, her eyes fever-bright when she looks up at him, mouth open, and leans forward-

It is chaos.

It’s a blur of touch and scent and taste that is _too goddamn tangible_ despite being a figment of his imagination -No. Not his; hers - and crystal sharp images that move just a touch too quickly, jumping from one action to the next without connection.

She is standing, and her hands pull off his helmet, exposing him - there are fingers curling into the hair at the base of his neck that send an electric shock shooting down his spine to pulse heavily in his fingertips.

And now he is watching as he rips at her uniform and she gasps and writhes beneath him, her long legs winding around his hips, breasts spilling into his palms, and “Yes, pleaseplease, _more_ -“

She is projecting how she is feeling, as well, because Dredd feels like he is on fire, like his body will burn to ash if he does not get inside of her _right now_ , and he has never known desperation like this, thought he was incapable of it because whatever primitive instinct his body possessed had been forced down under the lock of iron will long ago.

And then she is riding him, naked and ravenous, and he swears he can taste her skin on his tongue, can feel the sting as her nails dig into his shoulders…

It switches again and he stares at the smooth line of muscles in her back as she keens, her head thrown back – no, pulled back by his grip on her hair, his other hand pressing bruises into her hip as he fucks her from behind-

He knows he has stumbled, by the distant ache of his knee where it crashed into the cheap linoleum.  The pain brings him out of the blindness and for a second he sees with his own eyes.

They are both kneeling in the dark, among the scatter of old newspapers and letters, panting in exertion and their clothes intact; the only connection between them is his grip on her arm from when he had steadied her.

“Anderson.” He croaks. It is meant to be a warning, but her eyes are blank, and he feels the swell as she tries to drown him in her thoughts once more.

He feels the fury crashing into his gut a second before he smashes his other fist into her cheek, the crack echoing in the small apartment. She moans; it is not a sound of pain.   

Snarling, Dredd hauls her to her feet, slamming her into the door, and crushing against her so she will see his bared teeth even in the dark. Dimly, he’s aware they are still in a situation, with a gang hunting them and a downed Judge on their hands.

But his anger feels a little like madness; His control is everything, everything that keeps this wrath bound up tightly and buried deep. But she stripped him of that control, dragged it out of him in a second. His hands are shaking as they tighten on her.    

“Get the hell out of my head, Anderson. I will hurt you if you continue.” Her thoughts had not retreated with the blow. “Promise?” she says, head lolling back as she rolls her body against him.

He feels one of her ribs give way as he punches her again, but she doesn’t seem to notice, the images threatening to cloud over his vision.

_Goddamn her._

 Dredd knows what is right and wrong; the law is carved in diamond. Never kill an innocent.

But for one second, one clarity-sharp second, he considers killing Anderson for what she’s done to him.

He turns inward, letting the fire of his pure seething hate – at her, at her power, for forcing him to be weak- burn through every image, every goddamn touch, every feeling Anderson had imposed on his mind.

Returning it all to dust.

He hears her whimper, in true agony this time, as he viciously attacks her presence in his head-pushing her to the cliff edge of his consciousness with sheer rabid will. Anderson stands there a moment, teetering above the blackness, and then falls, retreating into her own mind.  Dredd feels a sudden release of pressure at his temples.

* * *

 It was silent in the apartment, beside their breathing and the faint tick of the plastic clock in the living room.   

Tears dripped from Anderson’s big eyes, now. Her teeth gritted in pain. “Please, Dredd.” Her voice trembled. “I-it _hurts._ It burns me. I need it-I need you-“

“Judge Anderson.”  He stepped away. “You are found guilty of assaulting a fellow Judge. Thirty years in an Isocube.”

He unholstered his Lawgiver. His hands were steady.

“Dredd-“

He lifted the weapon-

“Stun.”

– and shot Anderson point blank in the chest.


	3. Chapter 3

Anderson groaned as her consciousness slowly returned, her ribs aching dully in time with every shallow breath. Anderson swallowed thickly around the acrid taste in her mouth, her tongue fat and raw against the soft palate of her mouth.

She felt like shit.

She could barely think, due to a nasty headache that felt like it was actively trying to squeeze her eyes out of their sockets. _Concussion, probably._

Was that why she could barely see? Anderson reached one stiff-fingered hand up to gently prod at her eyes. The left one was swollen shut.

_One giant shiner, check. What the hell happened?_

She couldn’t recall anything. _Name, Childhood, Peach Trees. Got it._ But yesterday? She squinted into the sterile white light in the ceiling above her, ignoring the stab the action produced in her temples, trying to bring up some memory that would explain -

_Wait._

Her tiny, single apartment in the Judges Quarters had blue walls, with paint creeping onto the moldings where she had messed up covering the ugly, official beige, and cheap chrome light fixtures that had been on sale.

The ceiling she was staring up at was as spotlessly white as a hospital operating room; cold and smooth save for the small holo-lights shining down at her.

She hauled herself into a sitting position, gritting her teeth around the heaving of her stomach as she did so and took stock.

Four pristine, seamless, sensory-depriving walls. A standard 7 foot-by-two-foot mattress. No sheets. A toilet, tucked into one corner. She didn’t even have to look to know it was standard as well; made of semi-durable plastic so she couldn’t use it to bash her head in, and no water in case she tried to drown herself. Grey clothing made of synth-fibers. Strong, but would rip at the seams if she tried to hang herself with them. Dissolved on contact with enzymes in saliva so she couldn’t stuff pieces down her throat. Dread slid down her spine, freezing.

_An Isocube._

Anderson swallowed again. _Okayokayokay, think._

There had to be some reason she was here. Bureaucratic mistake? Someone could have fudged up some paperwork somewhere…

…and jailed a Judge instead of perp? _Not likely._

She discarded that option quickly.

She must have broken the law. Maybe she had royally fucked up some protocol? Disobeyed a senior Judge’s order?

She winced. She’d done that before.

Or maybe something worse…

Had she accidentally killed a civilian? An innocent?

_Stop, Cassie._

She shook her head a bit, halting the morbid though in its path. She could request a hearing in front of the Head Judge. The Department of Justice was, at least nominally, more lenient on their own.

She would be able to figure out what had happened there.

 _Besides_ , she reasoned _, it couldn’t have been something so awful if I can’t even remember it._

So all she could was wait.

She sat still for all of thirty minutes or so before her fingers began to twitch in boredom. Movement it was, then. Exercise served to distract her for a good while before she gave up that pursuit as well. Anderson got out one measly, pathetic pushup that made her want to vomit in pain and about a dozen and a half squats before her swollen eye threaten to explode from her elevated blood pressure. Pacing was next, and worked quite well, save for the fact that she didn’t have much room to work with. She tried shouting into the room - the cameras were unseen, but they were there.

“Judge Anderson requests a disciplinary hearing!”

“Judge Anderson requests a re-issuing of her sentence!”

Nothing.

She had a brief desire to shout insults as well, but she doubted it would help her case at all.

More pacing followed. Back and forth, back and forth. Keeping her mind occupied with anything – the digits of pi, the names of her classmates in Block Reagan Elementary School (there had been five hundred and seventy three), her favorite recipes, the plotline of the shitty harlequin novel lying abandoned on her kitchen counter. Judge Protocol in a hostage situation. The Protocol for a fire fight. What sentences for what crimes. When to execute.

Hours later – or maybe not; time warped weirdly in an Isocube and a second seemed to drag on forever, deprived of anything stimulating to fill it up and whisk it past -a panel in the seamless wall slid open and food was shoved through. She tried to call out to the deliverer, but the wall snapped back together crisply before she could manage more than “Hey!”

Anderson resigned herself to her bed, munching dully on her allotted four nutrient squares, tasteless, engineered precisely to give no joy to the act of eating while giving the human body enough alimentation to survive.

She’d heard 48 percent of perps went crazy before they got out of the ‘Cubes. She was surprised the number wasn’t higher.

 She dozed, fitfully, her injuries aching and her brain buzzing. When she awoke, Anderson felt even more disoriented. She had no idea how long she’d been here. A day?

Food was brought again. Three squares, brown. Breakfast. 

Anderson repeated her activities, for lack of anything better to do and to save herself from the nasty crawling fear that she would not be allowed an explanation despite her rank as Judge and she would be left to decay in here or go crazy with wondering what she had done. Exercise came first, then pacing, and then the shouting at the walls. Her headache receded a fraction, so she attempted to expand her mind to the guards-but no, all she encountered were the dark mutterings of the broken minds in the other cells, and the faint unintelligible brush of a few Judges somewhere within the bowels of the Hall of Justice.  

She took to singing to pass time, and humming when she forgot the words. Most of the songs Anderson knew were the ancient Christmas carols that her mother had adored. As she worked her way through a rendition of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas”, Anderson remembered the priceless heirloom passed down on her mother’s side – a CD of holiday songs from the 20th century – an original, if family legend could be believed, but Anderson doubted it. They had loved that CD, no matter how overplayed, and even though some of the songs skipped badly over scratches. She smiled through the half-remembered words to “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” That had been her mom’s favorite. She would giggle like the young woman she was when her husband swept her up and danced with her to it, making slow turns around their tiny, shabby block apartment. Anderson’s father would wink at her over her mother’s shoulder. “All the music after 2100 is garbage, Cassie-girl. This is the good stuff, right here.” They played it when guests were over, to mark special occasions, to keep the bad times away.

Then the sickness had come, sweeping in from beyond the Wall, wasting her parents down to their bones, turning their flesh grey and rattling in their lungs, and Anderson had pawned the CD for a third of its value to buy a few credits worth of pills.

_“On your knees, Anderson. Hands behind your head.”_

 Anderson gasped in shock at the disembodied voice, hard and authoritative, that cut through her thoughts and the total silence of her cell.

 _“Do it now,”_ the voice barked. Anderson jumped up from her seat and clambered to the floor, locking her fingers together against her greasy hair as the smooth walls in front of her slid open and two hulking Judges marched in. They grabbed her arms and twisted them behind her back, hauling her roughly to her feet. She gritted her teeth as her ribs protested with a painful tug.

“Where are we going?” No answer _. Of course._

They practically dragged her from the cell, frog-marching her along one of the thousands of vertiginous walkways that jutted out into the open air from the walls, the sight of the IDC whisking by.

 Anderson had never seen anything like it. The Isolation Detention Chamber was a square with four sides and empty space in between, traversed only by metal bridges that Judges patrolled; an entire Megablock of prison cells. Up, down, across the space, the Isocubes seemed to stretch on forever. The thousands of white doors, rows upon rows, floors upon floors, stared down at Anderson like the teeth of some terrifying monster, ready to swallow humanity whole.

The perps called it The Three.

She’d asked Samuels once, what that meant, “The Three.”

He’d grinned. _“It’s actually pretty poetic for a bunch of gangbangers to come up with. You know that old book, Dante’s Inferno?”_

_“Sort of.”_

_“Well, in the story, Dante gets to the Ninth Circle of Hell, and there’s the Devil, this huge hulking beast, standing at the center of the world, and he’s got three heads, right, and each one is chewing for eternity on the souls that have been judged the worst criminals to have ever existed.”_

_“What did they do?”_

_“No idea.”_

_“You don’t know what the worst criminals in history did.”_

_“No one knows. Those histories were lost back when the world went to shit. Guess you could say,”_ Samuel laughed, _“that the world forgot to keep punishing them.”_

They arrived at a set of elevators, the seal of the Hall of Justice stamped on the doors. Anderson felt a twist of anxiety in her gut. _Here we go._

One of the guards banged on a button as they entered and up they went, smooth and silent. It took less than a few seconds to travel to their destination, which was not nearly enough time for Anderson to prepare herself, before she was suddenly shoved forward and out of the elevator. The doors slid shut behind her with a pneumatic hiss and a dreadful sense of finality, and Anderson was alone with the Head Judge in her spacious, intimidating office.

“Judge Anderson.”

“Sir,” Anderson squeaked.

The Head Judge nodded. “Have a seat.”

Anderson crossed the giant room on stiff legs, sinking into the lone chair placed before the giant oak desk of the Head Judge. _Oak_. Extinct 700 years.

“Water?”

Anderson stared at the offered glass. If this was an inquisition, it was a very polite one. She was about to decline, but her tongue had gone suddenly dry. “Yes, please.”

The Head judge smiled down at her from her high seat, in a manner that Anderson assumed was meant to be comforting, the sharp lines of her features and her no-nonsense haircut standing in stark contrast. “Do you know why you are here, Anderson?”

“To be honest, I have no idea why, sir.” Anderson started. “I-I mean, I must be here because I was in an Isocube. But I have no idea why I was _there,_ sir. I hope nothing too terrible-” Anderson gulped down the drink to stop her nervous babbling.

The Head Judge continued on.

“You have no memory of any incident that might have put you there?”

Anderson shook her head, the movement bringing the ache in her face to the forefront.

“Hmm, well maybe it is to be expected.” She frowned, a wrinkle creasing between her brows. “Then what is your last memory?”

Anderson quickly closed her eyes to think, rolling the glass between her restless fingers. She’d tried in the Iscocube, but any attempt left her feeling strangely queasy. How she’d gotten these wounds was a mystery, shrouded in a hazy cloud of _something._ Bits and pieces existed around the periphery-a memory of fear and noise and smoke. Samuels yelling.

And before that, she could remember clearer images. Samuels leaning over to look at something, the shadow of a giant block and the wind whistling past her ears as she rode her Lawmaster.

“The most recent memories I can be sure of are eating breakfast before taking my shift last Thursday, sir. And some fragments with Samuels on a patrol.”

“I see.” The Head Judge sighed, and Anderson felt a flare of optimism. The woman did not seem too terribly angry so whatever had gone down on that patrol might not have been too terrible-

“Allow me to fill you in on the details.” She spread her scarred hands flat on the desk, over, what Anderson realized, were two holo-disks. “According to the reports submitted by Judge Dredd” – _What?_ – “and Judge Samuels, you accidentally inhaled a potent aphrodisiac drug- it’s new to the markets - while saving the life of your fellow Judge.” The Head Judge paused, holding the two disks up for emphasis.

Anderson studied at the fine grain of the desk, hopeful feeling gone, and a huge knot building in her stomach.

“You proceeded to make a distress call and drag your wounded partner to safety, where you waited for backup. All according to protocol. When Judge Dredd responded to your location, you tried to communicate your situation, but by then the drugs had already metabolized. You attacked him with your mind.” The Head Judge squinted at the offending holo-report, the one in her left hand, as if she were remembering the exact wording. “He did not include many details of said attack, but, well…one can infer.”

The muted thunk of the glass falling onto the carpet from her numbed grasp was the only sound in the room. Anderson stared, mouth gaping unprofessionally at her superior, as she sat overwhelmed beneath a desire to crawl back to her Isocube and rot there.

But the Head Judge was looking at her expectantly, waiting for some sort of response. Anderson cleared her throat.

“Believe me, sir; I would never willingly assault a fellow Judge.” Her voice shriveled into a whisper. “Especially not with my powers…o-or in that way.”  

_21 years old and already a sex criminal.  My parents would be proud._

“I realize that, Anderson,” the Head Judge smiled down at her not kindly, and with perhaps a tiny flash of amusement. “I believe Dredd reacted harshly in his sentencing. While assaulting a Judge is a serious crime, what you did seems to have been an unfortunate side effect to a rather heroic action. It doesn’t deserve thirty years in an Isocube, so I commuted the charges myself.”

 _He would have put me away for thirty years?_  “Thank you, sir.”

The Head Judge leaned back, lacing her fingers over the holo-disks. “I believe you’ve been punished enough,” she said, nodding to Anderson’s ugly black eye. “But I cannot just completely override one of my senior Judge's sentences. It is a shame, seeing as you’ve just started out but… you will be placed on probation for half a year – no patrols. You are to put yourself on voluntary house arrest during this period, which means you will restrict yourself to your apartment in the Judges Quarters and the adjacent mess hall. Understood?”

Anderson stood and saluted sharply. “Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Anderson walked back the way she came, her knees weak. Six months house arrest, no patrols. She could live with that, happily. Not a second more in the ‘cubes.

But, dear _god_ , she was might die of shame before she could complete her detention. Dredd. A senior Judge. Her fucking _Assessment Officer._ He’d passed her when she’d already resigned herself to being a failure. She had fucked up her second chance and Dredd, of all people, gave her a third; trusted in her abilities. And now-

She had reached the elevator doors, hand reaching out to press the button, when the Head Judge called out. “Oh, and Anderson, report to the Med Ward at 0800 tomorrow. Your punishment is effective immediately after your pshyc-eval.”

Anderson turned. “Sir?”

The Head Judge shrugged, the gold eagle sparkling on her chest. “Judge Dredd kicked the snot out of your mind, too. We want to be sure he didn’t do any damage.”

“He didn’t.”

“I’m sorry?” The Head Judge asked, an eyebrow rising, but Anderson was already shaking her head. “Sir, the minds I enter, short of imagining something horrifying, don’t do any harm to me. My powers are a one way street - contact with Judge Dredd won’t have affected my mind at all so… a psych-eval is unnecessary, I assure you.”

The Head Judge’s countenance stiffened. “His report states clearly that he forced you out of his mind with his own.”

“I-What?” Anderson squeaked. “I’m sorry, Head Judge, but Judge Dredd must be mistaken.”

“That would be quite a mistake.  Judge Dredd isn’t the type to make mistakes.”

Anderson, lifted one shoulder helplessly. “My powers- it’s not like science fiction; there’s no such thing as mental barriers to keep out psychics, or ways to force them out, or- When I want to enter a person’s mind, I just _can.”_

“Even if they think of other things.”

She shifted, uncomfortable. “There are levels to a person’s mind – their conscious, their subconscious, their memories, their forgotten moments. All of it is stored in their head, somewhere. And I can see it all, if I take the time to look. It’s like reading a book. Even if the book doesn’t want to be read, well…”

“I see.” The Head Judge’s face was unreadable, hard. She pressed a button on her desk. “Colburn.”

 _“Yes, sir,”_ a crisp sounding secretary responded.

 _Another goddamned disembodied voice_.

“Send Judge Dredd to my office, right away, please. I want to speak with him.”


	4. Chapter 4

Anderson felt, for the second time in one of the longest days of her life, an indescribable urge to flee the situation. Specifically, she wanted to jump out of the window of this exceedingly high up office.

Colburn’s voice crackled over the Head Judge’s intercom. “ _Judge Dredd to see you, sir.”_

“Send him in.”

Anderson tensed, the muscles in her side protesting.  At least she was sitting, once more staring at the imposing desk of the Head Judge.

The door opened, and Dredd strode in, blood and dust on his armor. It looked like he’d come straight off the streets.

The Head Judge nodded to him once. “Dredd. Have a seat.” The Colburn woman had brought in another chair and had placed it next to Anderson’s.

“I’ll stand,” he growled. Anderson swallowed.

“Suit yourself.” The Head Judge was unfazed, but Anderson supposed that one didn’t get to her position by being easily ruffled.

“We’ve got some matters to discuss regarding your report.”

Anderson felt Dredd’s gaze shift to her, the light glinting of his helmet and his frown curling deeper. “What’s there to discuss? She should be on house arrest, out of sight where she belongs.”

A jolt went up Anderson’s spine. She felt his contempt rolling off him like a physical thing, its sluggish dark tone sticking to her psyche in a sickeningly familiar way. She almost shuddered away from it-

_Fuckin’ mutie!_

_Where’s your tail?_

_Go out to the Waste where your kind belongs!_

-but she squared her shoulders instead. She was a goddamn Judge, not a scared little girl from the slums of Block Reagan.

“First we need to figure some things out.” The Head Judge was saying, shaking her head. “Anderson here says her powers can’t be overruled by the minds that she enters. Your report states that you did exactly that.”

His helmeted head turned back toward the seated woman. “Don’t believe me?”

“I’m not saying that. There might be a mistake.”

Dredd bared his teeth. The press of his mind turned hotter, burning with his more customary anger. “There wasn’t a mistake. I didn’t like her wandering around in my head. So I kicked her out. End of story.”

The Head Judge studied him coolly for a second, before turning her crew cut head to look at Anderson. “You’ve never run into anyone who could do this?”

“No, sir.” She kept her eyes straight ahead. “I’ve met a few other psychics. Even they can’t stop me from reading their mind; the only difference is that they can read me back.”

“I see. Is there a possibility Dredd is a…special case?”

She felt him shift beside her, a subtle movement that still managed to be threatening.

“A psychic who can shield their own mind? I doubt it, sir.”

“And why not?” The Head Judge regarded her. “You yourself possess a second-gen mutation. Before you, the world had no idea psychics could do more than feel out someone’s mild seasonal depression.”

“Yes, but second-gen psychics are mostly my age or younger. A third-gen probably hasn’t been born yet, if such a thing can even happen.”

There was a pause. “Is this all? I have another shift.” Dredd’s voice rumbled in Anderson’s ears.

The Head Judges gave a quick shake of her head. “Not yet. There is something going on that we need to get to the bottom of. The Hall of Justice doesn’t like conflicting reports and you both should already know why; bad intel leads to blindness in the field. Blindness in the field is tantamount to death. We are losing fifty Judges a year, and we need every edge we can get. This…skill of yours, Dredd. If it’s not just a fluke. Well.” She folded her hands, scars shining white as her fingers tightened.

“I am hereby ordering a special mission for just the two of you. It will be secret, security clearance Double Alpha Niner. Judge Dredd, you will report to Anderson’s Quarters every day after your morning shift while she continues her detention. You will submit to testing by Judge Anderson until she can make a comprehensive report on whether your experience was a one-time event.”

Anderson leaped to her feet at the same time Dredd took a menacing stepped forward, fists clenched.

“Sir, I have to protest!-”

“Sit down, Anderson.” The Head Judges voice was razor-sharp, eyes not leaving Dredd’s face. She hesitated, but obeyed, sinking back into the chair.

 “Dredd. If your mind can create a defense, a barrier, we need to know it.” Her eyes flickered, passing over the space between Dredd and Anderson. “You know why that is an unbelievable asset to us.”

Dredd’s mouth curled almost in a snarl. “I’ll do it. Just not with her.”

That hit Anderson like a shot to the gut, ratcheting up her blood a fraction.

“Negative. Anderson’s the best psychic that we have, and she is uniquely tied to this case. There is no other.”

The room fell silent.

He nodded once, nothing more than a sharp jerk of his head. The Head Judge leaned back, satisfied. “Dismissed.”

Dredd saluted sharply, turned on his heel and exited the office without another word. Without one glance at Anderson.

She exhaled through her teeth.

“Sir, you can’t be serious.”

The Head Judge looked at her, the stony look from before not quite disappearing. “I know you aren’t protesting a direct order, Anderson. Not after I just reduced your sentence to almost nothing.” Anderson knew a threat when she heard one, but she could not just leave matters alone.

She had always been stubborn at the worst times.

Sir, last time I entered Dredd’s mind he broke my ribs and fractured my orbital socket.”

The Head Judge stood, coming around her desk since the meeting began. She barely reached Anderson’s shoulder. “Dredd is a man that lives in a world of black and white. The law is not just a system for him; it’s a way of being, of living life. And he expects the same of everyone. Of every man, woman and child in Mega City One. He doesn’t give anyone a pass, not even fellow Judges. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Don’t push Judge Dredd’s buttons?”

The senior Judge snorted and gave her a shrew glance. “Dredd has a lot of buttons to press.  And you seem to very skilled at banging on them all at once. Be careful about that, Anderson. I can see you’re pissed off just as much as he is.”

“What! No, I-“

“Please. He beat the snot out of you and chucked you in the ‘Cubes the first time he sees you after you saved his life? I see a lot of myself in you, Anderson, and I know for a fact I’d be grinding my teeth down just thinking about it.”

Anderson swallowed, not trusting herself to respond to _that_ analysis. “What is it I will be trying to accomplish here, sir?”

The Head Judge studied her face a moment. “You are working toward a better future for this city you love. Every mission the Hall of Justice does is striving for the goal of a safer tomorrow.” She took Anderson by the elbow, leading her to the elevator. “But you; he did pass, once. Remember that, Anderson. He saw what you are capable of and he gave you that badge. And Dredd wasn’t happy with my decision to reduce your sentence, but he didn’t challenge it like I thought he might. You two work well together, despite everything. This case may not be as much as a disaster as you imagine it will be.” As Anderson stepped inside, the woman smiled, a true smile that melted the sharpness off her face and the burden off her shoulders. “But maybe learn to roll with the punches, just in case.”

* * *

 

This was ridiculous. It was 0900, the first day of her house arrest, and Anderson was pacing her living room having, for the very first time in her life, an existential crisis about what she was wearing. What did one even wear in a weird grey zone that included both her knock-off furniture and highly involved psychic analyses? It wasn’t even anything to do with the fact that she cared overmuch what she looked like. She’d been dirt poor as a child, spent most of her life in a uniform. She had maybe three dresses in her closet, all simple and plain. But she felt somewhere in her gut that setting too casual tone to these meetings would not be right, nor welcome. So Pajamas? Absolutely not. She’d discarded her uniform as well. She couldn’t come up with a reason to wear her field gear _– unless he takes a swing at me again_ – and the dress uniform would look ridiculous as she perched on the edge of her comfortable if slightly overstuffed couch.  So here Anderson found herself, settled finally on a pair of comfortable, clean jeans and a H.O.J. issued gray t-shirt, with her name stamped in small letters across her heart, and hoping it was good enough.

She gathered up holo-disk reports off her table and her crossword puzzles that she never had time for anymore, the surprising thought dawning on her as she stuffed them into her tiny storage closet that she had never seen Dredd out of his uniform. Hell, she had never seen his whole face, now that she thought about it, hidden under his helmet, beneath that symbol of the law. She wondered what he looked like when he wasn’t working -stretched out on his couch, maybe, t-shirt pulled tight over his shoulders, worn jeans-

Three knocks thudded against her door. Sharp, authoritative. _Here we go._

She opened the door to apartment, coming face to face with Dredd, who, in keeping to the letter of the order the Head Judge had mandated, had come straight to her after his shift. He had his field uniform and helmet on, and like yesterday, it was splattered with what looked like brain matter.

“You’re just going to stare at me, Anderson? Or let me in?” He growled at her. She jumped a little, a little embarrassed to be caught staring.

“Right, come on in.”

She stepped aside to let him pass. “Can I get you some coffee, or something?”

“No.”

_Okay._

She stood in awkward silence, watching as he scanned the living room quickly, learning the layout and memorizing the exits. Internally sneering at her non-regulation blue walls, probably.

His voice was short when he finally turned to her, the bloody, black armor and scratched helmet harsh against the background of her small apartment. “Let’s get started.”

She pointed him to the armchair that she had pulled up close to the couch to face each other, and settled quickly into her own spot, freezing as his glove hand clamped down on her wrist.

Dredd leaned in, leather creaking. “Let’s get something straight, Anderson,” he growled. “You don’t go where I tell you you’re not allowed. Some of the things in my head are above your pay-grade. I give you an order to cease, and you do it. Failure to comply will land you in the ‘Cubes again, and this time you won’t get a freebie bail out.”

He gripped her wrist for a half a beat more, the weight of that promise hanging between them, and released her.

She nodded jerkily, feeling her molars grind a bit. “Of course, sir.”

His frown was practically carved in stone.  

She took a deep breath and repeated his words.

“Let’s get started.”

* * *

 

She makes her presence known in his head, a soft brush at his conscious so he knows she’s there. She doesn’t feel like making him more on edge then he already is.

And he is.

Anderson feels it, the sharp metal taste in her mind of Dredd’s dislike of this situation. He is trying, subconsciously, to shut her out, too. His conscious mind is blank, taking in only details of the present. The water rings on her coffee table, the worn arms of her couch. Her socks, pink with little white dots.

Anderson has a sudden desire to curl her feet under her to hide them. They were a bargain and she makes grunt pay, sue her.

His efforts are futile.

She slides past his conscious and into his memories, treading at the very surface. Skipping to the very freshest, the ones from Titan.

Anderson senses the cool, dark press of older memories, the secrets and safelocks that make up the essence of Dredd, further down in his subconscious. She tunes that out.

Memories are a weird thing. They are distorted and colored by each person’s experiences, their life views, by what they choose to focus on.  A black man seeing the same thing as a wheelchair-bound girl of six will remember it differently. They degrade quickly, too, starting with a haze around the edges, then chunks disappear. Sometimes Anderson can’t tell the difference between a remembered dream and a true memory, if it’s old enough.

But Dredd’s memories of Titan are sharp. She watches from his point of view, impressed and not terribly surprised by how much he observes. Lobby. Gangs signs smeared on the metal shutters of a dingy Chinese shop. The Judged. The Three-Headed Dragons. The Reds. Four possible gang members sitting on the lip of the grimy fountain. Minors; they’re wearing school uniforms.  Half a second of the memory is dedicated to the one with a shaved head, and suddenly Anderson sees another child, eyes blank and hair cropped short, crouched in front of a dead dog, cutting-

* * *

 

Dredd was out of his chair so fast she barely has time to gasp before he hauled her to her feet, hand once more like a vice around her arm. “What the fuck was that, Anderson? I told you not even half a minute ago not to go poking where you don’t belong-”

And Anderson snapped.

“I didn’t! If you would calm down for one goddamn second, I’ll explain!”

Dredd lips pulled back, teeth bared. “I know that insubordinate bullshit didn’t just come out of your mouth.”

Anderson snarled back at him, face an inch from his, her hand closing around his wrist in return. “This is my op. You think you’re in charge here? You’re not. This is my specialty and you know it. And I’m sorry for my actions, okay? But I was drugged; that person who invaded your head wasn’t me, not really. I don’t even remember it! You trusted me once and I’m asking for just a speck of that now; or else we call this off right here, and the Department loses whatever-the-hell it is they want from this.”

The silence rang.

Anderson’s heart pounded with adrenaline, with defiance, her breathing matching Dredd’s. His armor scraped against her belly.

He released her roughly, taking a step back. “Explain.”

She settled back on the couch, the material creaking under her tense fingers. Dredd waited a second, standing over her menacingly as if he might lash out, before sitting in his place once more.

“Memories aren’t like…like a single thread that I can follow. They are a tangled mess, twisted up in other memories and ideas and beliefs. The best I can explain it is like ‘bright spots’. Your memory is strongest in the parts where you attach it to something from an older memory. Where you see something that reminds you of the past… of a thing you’ve seen or heard or read before, you’ll remember this new moment better. The brain works like that; making connections all over the place to add reinforcement.”

He frowned at her. Anderson took a breath.

“Basically, it’s inevitable that any memory I look at has connections to other memories. I can’t avoid them per se, but what I can promise is that I won’t follow those other threads. I won’t stop to understand what connection is made. I won’t go ‘poking where I don’t belong’, as you said.”

Her tone was bordering on insubordination again, but Anderson’s nerves were too frayed from the tension to rein it in.

Dredd looked seemed completely unsatisfied by that response, judging from the set of his jaw and the stiff line of his shoulders. “This is unbelievable.” He muttered.

“Look, sir. I gave you my word. I know what’s off limits and I’ll respect that entirely.”

His nod was stiff. “Same rule goes. You see something I don’t want you to see in these ‘bright spots’ and I’ll order you out.”

“Of course, sir.”

* * *

 

She dives back in, as gently as possible. Finds the right memory effortlessly. They are in the lobby again, heading toward the elevators.

Gang members. Anderson witnesses his impressions- make and model of weapons, the tattoos. A completely and utter disregard of scum like this.

He fires first. She notes how he subconsciously regulates his breathing, settling his heart into a steady rhythm so he doesn’t get sloppy on adrenaline.

The explosions are muffled by his helmet.

He questions the ringleader. Calls it in. She feels the slick of blood where it sprayed on his face, and the way the smell congeals in his nostrils.

Elevator. Shitty music, but old. The memory flares, a bit stronger for a second, and Anderson sees a ghostly figure overlaying the newer memory -an old man cowering behind the counter of his music shop, the crack of gunfire scraping against the soft waltz playing in the background. Dredd’s body tenses, but the image fades almost immediately, and he remains silent.

He puts bullets in more gang members. There is a rough sort of recognition of his successful hits, and then he is moving again.   

The memory skips forward a little; cutting out the little details that don’t matter, until Dredd is standing in front of the door.

Anderson marvels at his memory. The shade of the door stands out to him-a soft green that’s turning grey with age. The stenciled number on the door, black. Worn, too, like everything else.

She feels the muted force of his knock through the leather of his gloves. The prick of unease when the Judge behind the door does not immediately identify themselves.

The door opening and then-

Anderson gasps. _Memories are a weird thing. They are distorted and colored by each person’s experiences, their life views, by what they choose to focus on._ And standing before her, is Dredd’s memory of Cassandra Anderson.

She looks so young in his eyes. The lines of her cheek and jaw seem fragile, the slope of her shoulders delicate. Her eyes, bigger than Anderson has ever considered them. Her freckles stand out to him, darker in his memory than what she recalls from bathroom mirrors.

He steps past her, scanning the apartment. Empty, terrible place to hole up in. They would need to move.

But the other Judge is not in sight, and something begins to prickle in the back of Dredd’s skull. _She’s not answering me._

Anderson sees herself again as he turns to look at her, absently feels as the tingling because sharper. Her face is panicked, eyes showing white in fear, and she’s trying to speak. 

 “I need you to hit me. I m-mean stun me, knock me out.”

Anderson witnesses his hand reach out to grasp memory-her’s upper arm, hears the creak of leather as his fingers tighten. “Are you wounded?”

There is a small spark of impatience when she does not answer right away as her eyes go wide-

_“Oh.”_

Anderson gasps in horror. She had known. _Known_ it probably was horrible and unacceptable. Like she had said to him, she couldn’t remember. And because she had no recollection, she had the audacity to feel slighted by his anger toward her-

God, it was…surreal. And terrifyingly graphic. The implanted thoughts are fuzzy around the edges, but she had really put her best work into the sensations. He can see individual eyelashes and the pulse throbbing in her naked throat. He feels his calluses catch on the soft skin of her hip. She even _smells_ real – like sweat and leather, and the simple lavender that he’s noticed on her before. _Must be her shampoo,_ she hears him think. He is registering these details; burning them reflexively into his memory even as she shoves his consciousness under the tidal wave of her need. Through his memories, she watches what she put into his head play out.

His hands that she has him imagine touching her, stripping her bare, pulling open her willing legs. Another moment and she puts his teeth to work against her breasts. A fritz in the memory warps the images, and suddenly he feels the conjured sensation of her hair tickling down his abdomen. 

And Anderson looks down at herself on her knees for him, eyes half-mast and glazed with want, her own memory finally clicking into place.

The pure, all-consuming lust. The way she had battered her way into his mind, her mind too drowned in desire to know she should not. How she had carelessly rummaged through the most buried part of his subconscious to find the almost forgotten weaknesses he possessed – his fingers knotted into hair, the tremble of thighs around his hips, and – _holy_ _shit_ – the taste of orgasm on his tongue.

She puts fire in his lungs and blood in his cock and-

* * *

 

 

Anderson rocked back into the couch, the small movement helping to sever the connection.

The shame burned her as she stared at him, wishing she could meet his eyes properly, to convey that she understood now. “I-I am so sorry.” Anderson whispers, voice cracking. He didn’t respond to that. “You’ve got more to look through, Anderson.” His tone was harsh, impatient.

She shook her head, too overwhelmed to speak. She didn’t want to go on. Her skin felt tight, like she was about to burst from the energy crackling across her nerves, and worse, something close to the shame – but not quite – was throbbing low in her stomach.

“Please.” She begged him through gritted teeth. It hadn’t been more than half an hour and she was too over her head already. She needed time. There was forgotten whiskey in her freezer –a half-hearted birthday gift from some colleagues - which she would need several glasses of. Before she could press on she would need to process her own memories, jumbled and new as they were, to really understand what occurred. To analyze. To convert those powder-keg memories into cold hard facts.

But Anderson was not really thinking about the job she’d been assigned. She was trying to think about Dredd and Peach Trees and trust – _we almost died in there but we made it out, godammit -_ but now there were other images of him crowding for attention. Ones she definitely could not think about when the real deal was sitting not five feet in front of her, and would likely break more bones if he caught on to even a hint of what she was thinking. She had been a girl when she’d been put in the Academy, and the life of a Trainee was not an easy one. She knew the mechanics, of course…but never would she had thought – _rawandroughandelectrifying_ \- Anderson was clawing for her professionalism and it was slipping past her fingernails, and she wanted –needed - to be alone.

“This session is over, “ she grunted, her tone as authoritative and blunt as she could manage. “I’ve seen enough to start my report.” It was a white lie, but necessary. “We’ll start again tomorrow. 0900.”

Dredd’s frown curled deeper, clearly unsatisfied with the painfully little they had covered. But he nodded shortly and rose without a word.

_Perhaps he wants to run as much as I do._

He paused at the door, hand on the knob. He half-turned to her, the dark visor of his helmet gleaming as he hesitated. “Anderson-” he started, but stopped.

“Yes?” Her heart began to pound a little, in time to the throb of the headache forming under her battered eye.

Dredd grit his teeth. “0900.” A nod of confirmation and he was gone. 


	5. Chapter 5

Anderson dreaded the next day.

With nothing to do, trapped in her small apartment except to get food down the hall, Anderson hoped the time before her next reunion with Dredd would drag on and on.

But she wasn’t that lucky. Anderson tried to stay occupied; she cleaned her entire apartment, loaded up some laundry, did push-ups until her arms shook, and all the while the clock raced ahead, ticking down to their inevitable second meeting.

 _Maybe it would be less disastrous than the first,_ she hoped, as she viciously scrubbed at the linoleum of her tiny kitchen. _Maybe the worst was over._

But then every few minutes a wave of memory would flood her, and she was left tingling and red-faced as she threw herself into some new task that absolutely needed to be done immediately.

Far too soon, her apartment was sparkling, her reports all finished and checked through twice, and her small collection of books and manuals was in alphabetic order. _Time to stop stalling._

She poured herself a healthy serving of the whiskey from her freezer and threw it back, grimacing as the burn slid smoothly down her throat.

Anderson settled on the couch, drawing her knees up to sit cross-legged, her palms open and fingers relaxed against them. Meditation has always been her go-to method for analyzing memories that weren’t her own; helped her piece through them bit by bit to find the important information. People’s heads were chaotic, cluttered. Filled with unnecessary sensations and recollections intertwined with what she needed to know. Anderson supposed a better way existed than mentally picking the mess apart herself, but so far she had not discovered it.

_Find the facts, Cassie._

The whiskey had settled warmly in her stomach now, loosening the knot that had been growing , and buzzing pleasantly in her veins.

* * *

She skips quickly over the lobby and the elevator – there is nothing in those memories that can be a clue. She watches again as Dredd scans her face, steps around her into the apartment. Makes a note of the layout and turns to her-

Anderson stiffens a little, bracing for the images, cheeks heating. She soldiers through as they start up, vivid and licentious.

 _It isn’t too bad,_ she thinks, _when I’m prepared for it._ She studies the images critically, noting again the complexity of the images. The level of detail really is incredible. She has never had such success in projecting such clear thoughts before and wonders if the drug perhaps enhances existing – or dormant - psychic powers. She grins a little. It is a start, a line of questioning that she can follow, and the tight muscles in her shoulders begin to relax. _I can do this!_

But suddenly her fingers find success with his belt and she sees her own lips stretched eagerly around his- his-

* * *

Anderson jumped off the couch with a strangled moan and paced the living room, hands slapping at her burning face.

_For god’s sake, woman. Pull yourself together!_

She looked toward the window; darkness had fallen, the sharp glitter of the city turning the inky black of the sky into a muddy brown. Soon it would be time for bed, and soon after that it would be time for the meeting.

She settled again on the couch, took a deep breath, and jumped in again.

* * *

 

She decides to go over her own memories – she has seen all that she can from Dredd’s. The new memories that had clicked into place in the session feel hazy and a little foreign, as if they had been someone else’s thoughts. That is good. It will make studying them in a detached manner easier.  Anderson needs to go over them, pick them apart, analyze every detail.

Still, she shudders when she sees herself throwing herself into his head so shamelessly. She tries to skip as quickly as she can over the memories that he clearly did not want her to know – Anderson feels like a voyeur, seeing Dredd’s mind stripped bare, seeing the things that make him burn. The blows he lands are dull compared to the searing throb between her legs.

But then the pain starts.

He somehow rises out of the grip of her consciousness, and it physically sears; she can feel the ache in the memory clearly, a sharp pain ringing through her head. The sensation feels like his anger, but thicker and stronger, overflowing her mind as if- as if even her brain cannot process all that fury at once. Dredd somehow floods the images she puts in his head. The raw emotion he puts forth overpowers all other thoughts, even the ones that she has made dominant in his mind, and in doing so, leaves no room in his head for Anderson. He pushes her out through sheer force alone. Anderson gasps at the pain, still vivid even in the memory, and at the unbelievable nature of what she is witnessing. _This is impossible,_ she thinks, watching her memory of him blur under a film of tears. Feels as the lust inside her turn to biting, shredding her insides and howling for release. Hears her voice begging him…and feels the nasty jolt as the stunner rips into her body.

Blackness.

* * *

 

0900 came too soon. Anderson had gone over and over the memories that she had, and she saw no possible explanation for her report as to why Dredd had been able to force her presence out of her mind. It simply beggared belief. She had never, in her short 21 years, seen anything like it, especially not from someone who was not a psychic. Unless he was…Anderson briefly wondered if Dredd would allow her to skim some of his earlier memories, to see if he had some undiagnosed psychic ability. But no, she could see his scowl and growled reply to _that_ suggestion already.

And as if thinking about his brusque attitude summoned him, there was a quick knock at the door. She jumped up from the couch, smoothing out the front of another of her D.O.J. shirts, fighting the blush already warming her ears.

His shift must have been dull; there was no grime smearing the front of his armor today. Dredd grunted in reply to her greeting and stepped around her, dropping into the chair that she had arranged once more before the couch. “Let’s go, Anderson.”

She almost rolled her eyes, but she could see from the hint of teeth in his grimace that he was not – _when was he ever_ – in the mood for any attitude. “Sure you don’t want a coffee, first?”

He grunted again. “Sure.”

Anderson stared, caught a bit off guard by the affirmative. “Okay, got it. Coffee.” She stepped into her tiny kitchen, cursing when she realized she hadn’t put a pot on. The clock ticked thunderously. She swallowed.

 “How was your round?” As soon as she said it, she winced. _Small talk? I might as well have asked about the weather._ She heard Dredd shift in his chair. “Same scum, different day.” She hummed in agreement, spooning the sim-grounds into the filter, praying the coffee would brew fast.

“Brought in any perps?”

“Three. Revheads, modding stolen cars in that depot off of mega-highway 6.”

“Thought they lost all their territory in the last raid.”

“There’s always some corner that survives.”

“We’ll get them in the end, though…”He snorted at that. She wondered if he was getting cynical.

The drip-drip-drip of the liquid into the pot echoed around her apartment.

“You cleaned.”

Anderson turned around in surprise. “Uh. Yeah, I did. Not much to do on house-arrest. You know…” The way he tilted his helmeted head gave her the distinct feeling that he was thinking about how very much he did not know what it was like to be confined to his quarters like a criminal. She cleared her throat. “Wish they would let me go down to the training hall, at least.”

“Too bad.” Dredd growled, chatting apparently done with. “Punishments aren’t vacations, rookie.”

“I don’t really consider getting my assed kicked in the mission-sims to be a vacation _, sir,_ ” Anderson replied, eyes narrowed. “Just didn’t want to get rusty.”

“All that matters is your brain right now, Anderson. Make sure that is up to standard.”

She tried not to slam down the mugs she’d fetched too forcefully on the counter. “I’ll do my best.”

* * *

 

She winces her way through his recollection of the night again, shuddering and feeling a little sick at the way he shoved her out of his mind. But no go –his perspective doesn’t shed any new light on how he was able to do it. She’s not ready to admit to Dredd that they have hit a dead end so quickly, though. She can just imagine what he’d have to say about that. She stalls by exploring the memories of how he got them out of there – it seems he blasted out the window and tethered her and Samuels’ limp bodies to a repelling rope and let them down as far as the rope would go, and following after, kicking them all onto the tiny concrete balcony of a rather terrified Asian grandmother. He managed it two more times before the Red Hands caught up with him, battering down the door to apartment they had landed in. Anderson bites her tongue as she feels the sickly thud of bullets into his armor-

* * *

 

“Is this pertinent to your investigation?” Dredd growled. Anderson jumped, her vision clearing. “Ah…I suppose not.” She flushes a bit, feeling a bit embarrassed for her curiosity. “How did you manage to get us all out?”

Dredd was still, and for a second Anderson believed he wouldn’t answer, but his lip curled and he responded, “Killed the ones that came through the door. Jumped the rest of the way.”

“Jumped?”

He shrugged. “Only a few feet. Samuels is probably sore, he fell like a sack.”

Anderson couldn’t help the incredulous giggle that burst out. “You threw us? We should all be dead.”

“Peach Trees had worse odds.”

She dared a glance at him from under her eyelashes, wondering if he was making a peace offering, bringing it up like that. She couldn’t tell. “Thanks for saving me…us…again,” she ventured, feeling a bit wrong-footed.

 “It’s my job,” he grunted. “And this is yours. What do you have?”

Anderson blinked. _Right._ “I’m going to run through everything once more, make sure I have it all.”

“Again?” he asked, through gritted teeth.

“Last one.”

Nothing new is revealed to her, however. She skimmed over the bright spots as quickly as she could, paid fine attention to every detail, to each sensation, thought, emotion. Tried not to blush at the strong throbs of arousal in his memory that accompanied certain images – the one where she scratched lines into his shoulders, or when she moaned around his cock and tangled his fingers in her hair… the one where she begged for it. 

She watched as she is pushed out of his head, before breaking the connection. “Well?” he growled almost immediately.

Anderson swallowed. “It is not like anything I’ve seen before,” she hedged. He shook his head impatiently. “We know that already, Anderson. What caused it?”

She lifted a shoulder in a bit of a helpless shrug. “It’s possible the drug affected my psychic powers in some way, made them more susceptible, more…receptive to the thoughts of others.”

Dredd tilted his head. “Seems like a stretch.”

“Yeah…it sounds pretty unlikely. But the drug did seem to have some psychic affect... Everything was sharp.”

“Sharp?”

“Everything I…projected…was more realistic than what I can usually manage.” She looked down at her fingers. “Those sights and the sound – even the smell – it should have been beyond me.”

Dredd didn’t respond. Anderson studied the curve of her nails, the skin torn where she had worried the edges with her teeth.  

“Anyway,” she ventured, “I would like to run some mental tests, just to verify that you are not psychic.” She curled her fingers into her palms- looking at them had made Anderson remember the things she’d made his do to her.

“Thought you said that wasn’t possible.” Dredd said.

“We have to know for sure.”


	6. Chapter 6

Anderson swallowed grimly around her nervousness. Ready to begin Plan A.

 “Could you take off your gloves?”

His fingers curled into the leather. “Why?”

“Physical contact strengthens psychic bonds.”

He grunted reluctantly, peeling the black gloves from his hands. “I’ve seen you work without it.”

“I’ve trained for years not to be reliant on touch, sir,” she replied, eyeing his hands. Fighter’s hands. Thick fingers, scarred knuckles. She reached forward and slipped her hands against his palms, fingers resting lightly against the steady thud of the pulse in his wrists. The position put her leaning into his space, close enough that she could feel his hiss of breath against her cheek.

“I’m going to run the tests now, sir. They will…need to push you in order to really ascertain your psychic ability.”

“My memories are off limits, Anderson. I already told you that.”

“Yes, sir. ”

* * *

 

She slips into his head.

She sits across from him, a heavy metal table between them. Slate grey walls, concrete. The room is empty, save for the two hard chairs they’re occupying, and a soulless fluorescent lightbulb. No visible doors or windows, a suffocating entrapping room. An interrogation cell.

Anderson looks at Dredd for a beat. His face is set, ready. There is a small white scar on his chin, just beneath his full bottom lip, interrupting the stubble.

“Look down.” She says. She says it normally, but it echoes in the pressing silence of the room. His wrists are suddenly shackled to the table, the hard bands cutting in. Dredd immediately balls his fists, yanking at the restraints. They don’t budge. He grits his teeth. There is anger pooling in his head, flowing just outside these four walls she’s built in his mind.

“That’s not how it’s done.” She says calmly, inspecting her nails. She hopes her nonchalance will irritate him.

“Shut the hell up, Anderson.”

Bingo.

He pulls again, getting to his feet to put his full weight into the motion, muscle straining in his jaw, teeth bared. The chain rattles against the table, but doesn’t give. “They’re not real, you know.” Anderson says, goading him. “Use your mind. Push me out again.”

He gives another mighty yank and growls at her. The pulse of anger from outside ticks up.   

“Oh, you can’t?” She stands up, affecting a casual lean on the table in front of her, smiling wickedly, though her heart is pounding. Anderson is acutely aware of his hands against hers in the physical world, tensing up.  

“Of course I can’t. I’m not a psychic.” Another pull.

“Try.”

He huffs and stills, going quiet. She can’t see his eyes through the helmet, of course, but she can sense he is concentrating on his hands, willing the shackles off of himself.

The silence beats on for a few moments. Anderson can feel the thick anger lapping against her prison like an ocean.

“Looks like you need some motivation.” she says, and cracks him across the face with her open palm.

He roars, lunging for her, but the chains stop him short.

“Your psychic ability presented itself in a time of high stress and mental assault. We need to recreate some of those factors as faithfully as possible to draw it out.” She says, leaning in. “Do you understand?”

“Do your worst, rookie,” he snarls. “I’ll try not to doze off.”

“Remember, the objective is to remove the chains with your mind.” She is suddenly in her tactical gear, ‘giver in her hand. She flicks the setting to stun with her thumb, and shoots him point blank in the chest.

He flies back, sending the chair crashing, before being brutally yanked short by the chains around his wrists. He groans, his black armor smoking. “This feels like payback, Anderson.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.” She says blithely, rounding the table to drive a steel-toed boot into his side. “I don’t hold grudges.”

True to form he’s up on his feet immediately, shaking off what must feel like very real pain, twisting as far as he can in his restraints to keep her in his sights as she circles him.

“Yeah? Well, you’ll have to work harder than this, then. Can barely feel a thing.”

She grins back at him. “Famous last words.”

She works him hard over the course of an hour using the butt of the ‘giver. The visor of his helmet cracks under her blows, and one she lands just under his cheekbone bursts the skin open, pouring blood down his cheek. Kicks to the solar plexus to knock the wind out of him and rattle his ribs. Pounds on his fingers until one or two give a telltale crack.   But the anger stays outside swirling ineffectively against her trap, and the cold metal cuffs groan but hold firm. “Come on.” She sighs. “Are you working at all? As much fun as this is kicking your ass, we’re not getting anything.”

He’s on his knees, nose dripping blood.  Hands hanging above his head from the short chain, like he’s praying.

 He grunts, shifts. The imaginary floor is probably leeching ice into his kneecaps. “Just waiting for you to finish warming up.”

Anderson rolls her eyes. It feels so good to do it, here where she can’t be accused of insubordination.

“I assure you, Sir. I am doing my upmost to cause you pain.”

“No, you’re not. You’re holding back. Worried about causing some lasting psychological trauma.”

She lands a flying knee into his chin. His head snaps back, helmet crunching sickeningly against the table. “Does that feel worried to you?”

Dredd shakes his head, spitting a tooth to the side. There’s got to be ringing in his ears. “You’re taking it easy on me because you think you’ll break my mind. You think this will make me lose sleep at night? You’ve got a lot to learn, kid.”

It’s probably being called a kid that makes up her mind. She had thought about this, last night. A way to break him, a Plan B. Had wondered if she dared.

 “Fine,” Anderson says. “Then, I’ll just have to switch tactics.”

She crouches in front of him. Looks at where his eyes are under the helmet. “Dredd. I’m about to do something you won’t like. Don’t punch me again.”

She squeezes her physical fingers around his. She doesn’t let them shake.

“This is for the good of the Hall.”

The Lawgiver disappears from her fingers. She reaches up, slowly unbuckles the heavy black armor of her gear. The breastplate. The guards on her forearms . The eagle on her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Dredd asks. He’s sitting, slumped slightly against the leg of the table, his arms chained above his head. There’s blood on his chin.

Anderson pulls off the black tactical suit underneath her armor. She’s in a sundress, pale blue, like the sky over MC One would be if it wasn’t so choked with smog. He likes sundresses, she remembers. She had seen it in his memories she had ripped into back in Titan. He likes the way they kiss a woman’s knees, likes the way they cling.

Her feet are bare.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asks again, urgently, whole body tensing as she walks slowly closer.

“We have to jolt your brain, Dredd,” Cassie says softly. “We’ve got to make you uncomfortable.” She’s on her knees now, reaching her hand forward gently, slowly, and rests it against his cheek.

Dredd freezes, breath suspended between his lips.

“Don’t.” He chokes, a thread of something ragged in his voice.

Cassie strokes her fingers down his cheek, the tips buzzing with the scratch of his stubble, daring to touch the corner of his lips.  “You know pain, Dredd. You’ve felt it in more ways than I can come up with. I can't force your brain to fight me that way.”

She sees her reflection in his visor, cracked as it was. She looks weak. Blonde hair loose around her shoulders, her delicate collarbones exposed, her pale skin translucent in the dim light of the cell in his mind.

But her eyes are determined.

Cassie throws a thigh over his legs and settles into Dredd’s lap. The man makes a noise, somewhere between a groan and a hiss.

“What is it you hate most in the world, Dredd?” Cassie whispers. “What made you so angry that you forced me out of your head last time?” Her hands slide up his armored chest,  flutter over the pulse in his throat, and curl around the edge of his helmet.

“It’s the loss of control, isn’t it?”

She slides the helmet from his head.


	7. Chapter 7

He looks younger like this, brown hair tousled from the helmet, not just a frown and a badge. There’s a wrinkle on his brow from a lifetime of scowling. And there, a thin white line cutting across his left cheekbone, a scar from a long ago fight, to match the one on his chin.  His nose looks to have been broken a few times, gives a sturdy nature to his features.

He’s got gunmetal grey eyes.

“You go into my memories again, Anderson,” he says, eyes not leaving hers, “This ends. One way or another.”

“See, Dredd, there’s more than one way to make a man lose control.” Cassie tamps down hard on the flutterings in her stomach. “I don’t need your memories. I’ve already seen them, remember?”

Cassie leans in, presses her lips close to his ear so he can feel her breath tickling his face.  “And I remember what you like.”

Dredd bucks up wildly, trying to unseat her, but she has the upper hand here. He is shackled and she pins his body with her thighs. He finally settles, breathing hard through clenched teeth. “Running out of ideas, huh, rookie?” He spits, the anger sloshing outside the cell. “This seems a little weak next to the little love taps from before.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

She slides her hands up her thighs, concentrating on the soft brush on her skin. She keeps talking as she goes. “You like blue, right? You don’t have an opinion on colors, you tell yourself, but the images of women wearing blue in your memories are sharper. They stick out to you.”

“Anderson…” he warns, voice thick.

She goes on. “But your shade preferences weren’t really what I was looking for when I dug around in there.” She’s got her lips against his cheek, a soft brush as she speaks. She grinds down on him, just a little, to hear him grunt.

“Fuck! My memories are none of your fucking business, Anderson.”

Hearing him curse sends a hot shiver through Cassie. In the physical world, she feels her face begin to flush.

“Some were extremely informative.” Her hands are toying with the hem of the sundress, inching it slowly up her thighs.

“That so?” She’s really got him angry now. She feels the anger pounding against the walls. It’s tipped with something heavier now, something primitive.

 Good.

She bites her lip, watches the way his eyes catch on it. “Yeah.  Like how you like the feel of a woman’s legs around you.” She slowly tightens her knees so he can feel the way her legs bracket his hips. “Or I could put them around your shoulders, if you prefer?”

Dredd closes his eyes. She thinks he might crack a tooth, the muscles in his jaw jumping wildly.

“Sorry,” she breathes, “but this is my investigation. Open your eyes or I’ll burn these images onto your eyelids.”

He does. The grey really suits him.

“You like bare shoulders.” Cassie slides her fingers under the thin left strap of the dress, slipping it down her arm.

“And…” She returns her hands to her thighs. Pushes the dress the last inch up.

“Cassie.” She pauses at the sound of her name hoarse on his lips. “Stop this.”

She studies him. His eyebrows are furrowed low and his familiar snarl is in place, but his pupils are blown open and she can see his blood thumping wildly in the vein on his neck. This is working.

So she says nothing in response, nothing at all, and slides her fingers against her sex.

 

* * *

 

She jolts from even that slight brush over her most sensitive parts. It’s been so long since she did this – being a rookie Judge is grueling work and she comes home most nights half-asleep on her feet. And even before that, at the Academy; it was a rushed affair, tense and silent, surrounded by sleeping cadets in the barracks.

She’s never had it like this before – splayed out over a man’s lap, his gaze burning holes in her and making her blood sing.

Cassie goes slowly, running her fingers gently against herself, gasping at the sensation. Dredd hands curl into fists where they are suspended.

 

* * *

 

After Peach Trees, she had had nightmares. The sick feeling of being chased, of being trapped; the wet sound the bullet made as it thudded into her. They all crept into her dreams, poisoned her sleep. She would wake up in a mess of tangled sheets stale with sweat, heart hammering and exhausted.

But those weren’t the worst.

She knew she had developed a unique relationship with Dredd during Peach Trees. They had fought and bled together. Almost lost their lives. Saved each other. She had walked away from Peach Trees thinking she was cut loose from the Hall of Justice and he brought her back in.

Cassie knew the rules of the Hall and had heard how Dredd operated. Heard the rumors, and seen it in Peach Trees. No exceptions to the rules, not ever. She respected him for that.

So when he handed her back her scuffed badge and growled, “Congratulations, Judge.” She knew he respected her too.

The dreams started after. Mostly the nightmares, but sometimes-

_Her veins are full of SloMo. Everything seems shiny, technicolored and not quite real. She is in Peach Trees or maybe Reagan or maybe nowhere, she can’t quite concentrate on anything besides the diamond sparkle of sweat on Dredd’s temple as he fucks her against the wall-_

She would wake up gasping with her heartbeat throbbing between her legs. She threw herself into her work after those dreams, hoping to drown them in exhaustion and unsexy holo-disk reports.

 

* * *

 

But now Cassie lets them curl to the surface of her mind, lingering over the sensations as she strokes herself, her belly twitching as the heat uncurls into her toes.  

She needs to push him. She has been wet since she touched his face, but he has hardly spoken at all.

“What are you –ah! - thinking of?” She asks him, shuddering as she toys with her clit. His face is dark, heavy. Fury, she thinks. And hunger.

“How to break these cuffs into a million pieces.”

“And once they are broken, what will you do?” The question comes slightly slurred to her lips. She is circling her middle finger around her entrance, teasing herself. She aches with such an emptiness there.

“I’ll punish you on this table.”

She knows he probably meant it as a threat, but the dark promise in his voice makes her throb and she pushes one finger inside. “O-oh!”  She feels herself around it, clenching tight and wet and eager.

She wants to transfer the sensation to him, to make him privy to everything she is feeling, drown him in her arousal.

But she won’t do that to him again.

She only touches herself while he watches.

And, _god_ , it feels incredible.

She feels like she’s on fire from the inside, lit by his eyes. They are taking in her every movement, every twitch and shuddered breath she makes. They skim her bare shoulders, the tops of her breasts, over her exposed thighs to where her hand moves.

She feels the weight of his gaze like a touch, and it makes her burn.

Cassie wants him to know.

“If you got out of these handcuffs, I’d want your fingers inside me.” She confesses, eyelids drooping as she twists her own.

 Dredd hisses in a sharp breath. “Fuck!”

She works another finger into herself. She wants to scream at how wonderful and unbearably not enough it is. She feels drunk on this, head lolling back against her control, her nipples tight and heavy.

There is no grim duty left for Cassie, no thought of the Good Of The Hall. It is just him and her and this tiny room, the soft sounds of her pleasure between them, electricity crackling.

Cassie rolls her hips forward, onto her fingers, and that’s it – she feels the plateau of pleasure start to fray at the edges, the sensations starting to intensify, gathering in her core.

“Oh,” she whimpers against his ear, “I’m coming-“

And the walls of the cell shatter, disappearing into smoke as the wave of hot anger and lust slam into her. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd new chapter. I'm sorry it takes me literal years to bang these out. I only really do them when some inspiration strikes me which is pretty rare these days. Hope you enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8

She feels she is drowning.

Her mind is swallowed up in an instant by the maelstrom, the rage of his mind pressing her down like a physical weight, so that her lungs struggle to fill. She hears herself, distantly, gasping for air, her hand still against Dredd’s own.

 _This shouldn’t be possible_ , she thinks desperately.

Cassie draws her mind tight, close, writhing away from the burn of his anger. _Walls,_ she imagines desperately, forgetting it won't protect her, but it is too late.

He pushes into her mind with brute force. Splitting into her, smashing, no care or precision to his attack.

Its not like her interrogation. There are no conjured images, no rooms or walls or people. She can only feel him.

Everywhere. 

His heavy anger is pouring into through her every thought. _How fucking dare she play with him, crack his mind open like an egg, use his weaknesses against him?_

His thoughts are his and hers and where does he end and she begin- 

_She can only feel him._

And there, stronger now than the anger-

She knows. She feels it as if it were her own, and maybe it is her own, too –        

His want curls hot in her cerebellum, trickling down her spine to wind into her bones and stab at her belly. 

 _Dredd,_ her mind whispers to his, _DreddDreddDredd-_

Cassie knows he can feel her as well.

The tingle in her core from her aborted orgasm. The way – _God –_ the way she feels empty and aching.

She wants him there.

His mind in hers pulses hard at the thought and Cassie nearly moans out loud.

Her head is so full, her mind barely able to contain all of him.

Images now do begin to take shape; smoke and ash solidifying sharply until she can count the scars on his chest. It’s her memory of Titan –or his? – and Cassie watches as she sucks wetly on his cock.

But she isn’t kneeling on the cheap linoleum of the apartment in Titan. She thinks it is her apartment but –

The dark room has beige walls and no clutter, utilitarian furniture, and manuals on the bookshelves.

 _It’s Dredd’s quarters,_ Cassie realizes with a jolt. _His private space._

Does he think of this when he is there?

Dredd’s head falls back with a thump against the wall.

 _God_ , she thinks, _he’s so-_

His face is cracked open, vulnerable, the muscle in the line of his throat working. His eyes dazed, attempting to focus. The fingers he has wound through her hair spasm as he tries not to pull too hard. 

Cassie feels it as she watches. His thick fingers carding through her hair, lifting shivers on her scalp. The weight of him on her tongue. 

Dredd thinks she’ll make him come if she looks up at him with those big eyes right now- 

The coil of heat in her tightens with a snap.

And like that, it is too much for Cassie. _Too much, too much-_

And suddenly he is gone.

 

* * *

 

Dredd wrenched away from her so violently that his chair flew back and crashed over sideways.

Anderson swallowed, mouth dry, eyes following as Dredd began to pace restlessly, one hand scrubbing restlessly over his jaw. “What the fuck, Anderson-“

“I know-“

“What the fuck!?”

It unbalanced her, seeing him like this suddenly. With clothes on. With the helmet and the eagle.

He rounded on her. Demanded, “What was that? Explain it to me.”

Anderson lifted one shoulder in a weak shrug, helpless. What part did he want to know about, she wondered. The part where he somehow had psychic abilities that were stronger than her own? Where he could read her just as easily as she could read him?

The part where he got into her head and nearly made her come with his mind?

“I don’t know.”

“That’s fucking great, Anderson. Really helpful.” 

“This shouldn’t be possible.”

“Yeah, you said that. You said that there was no way I was a psychic. So, what the _fuck_ -”

“We still don’t know that you are.”

Dredd looked ready to punch something. “I think we’ve established that I am.”

It was hard for her to look at him. Her insides were thrumming, the phantom taste of his skin on her teeth. He must have been feeling it, too.

“Maybe not. You never had any psychic ability before Titan. So maybe it was just something about the situation or the drugs that triggered it. So-“

“It’s not a one time thing, Anderson! Today proved that.”

Her head was splitting from his intrusion. “I don’t fucking know, either!” she snapped. “I’m trying to figure it out, Dredd, but-“

“But what?”

_But five seconds ago I was fucking you and I can’t think straight and I probably can’t even stand up right now my legs are so shaky and-._

“There’s more to unpack. I’ll need to do more tests.”

“Anderson-“ Dredd took a step forward, his mouth curled.

 She threw up a hand in panic. He froze.

 “Sorry. I- Just. It’s been a lot. Today-“ she stuttered. She couldn’t have him so close so soon, after.

 “Let’s just. Leave it here for now. I’ll write a report for the Chief-“

 He scoffed and ran his hand roughly over his face again. There was tension in every line of his body. She bet that anger at her was still burning.

 “-And I’m sorry for all of this, Dredd.” she whispered, and suddenly there was an alarming lump in her throat that she couldn’t help. She was exhausted, her mind stretched out and sore. Bruised inside by his rage. Anderson focused on the floor quickly, willing the tears not to fall. How pathetic would that make her, the rookie that assaulted her senior officer and then cried about him hating her?

 He was silent for a few long moments.

“It’s Joe.”

 Anderson looked up warily. “What?”

He grunted. “My name. It’s Joe. Protocol has already been shot to shit here, so.” He had his arms crossed over his chest, a frown on his face beneath the black visor.

 He looked uncomfortable.

 Anderson smiled shakily. “Okay. Joe.”

 He nodded once, a short jerk of his head. “Yeah.”

“I’ll write a report. And- see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” He said, again. Softer. “Tomorrow.”

 He unfolded his arms and righted his chair. He seemed to hesitate a moment.

 “I’m sorry, too,” he said slowly. “About-“ he gestured to his head. “You pissed me off a bit.”

 Anderson smiled, stronger this time. “I tried my damndest.”

 “Yeah. You did.”

 And there was something there, in his tone, a low note of heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you guys think!


	9. Chapter 9

Dredd began yanking viciously at his uniform even as the door to his quarters crashed shut behind him, the door frame juddering from the force. The heavy body armor he ripped off, tossed into a corner. His helmet hit the wall above, rolling to a stop a few feet away, visor glinting dimly in the low light. Boots and gloves received the same treatment. There was anger pouring through his veins, making him feel restless and violent. He went out on another patrol after leaving Anderson’s but it had barely done anything to force down this boiling feeling inside of him. He didn’t want to be finished for the day. He wanted to be out on the streets again, working out this burning energy on some well- deserving criminal. He wanted to be dealing justice. He wanted to find Anderson in her quarters, bury his hands in her blonde hair and-

Dredd groaned, shaking his head sharply. 

He couldn’t fucking focus today. The second patrol he had teamed with Samuels – recovered almost completely from his ordeal in Titan – and it had not gone well.

“Hey, Dredd! Thanks for saving our skins,” the Judge had said blithely as they mounted up on their Lawmasters, “I read all about the daring rescue in your report.”

Dredd grunted in reply. Samuels leaned on the handlebars, frowning. “I also saw you tried to throw Anderson in the ‘Cubes. That’s a little much, don’t you think?” 

“No, I don’t.”

“She’s a good kid, you know.”

“Do you have a point, Samuels, or are we going to sit here all day?”

Samuels studied him for a moment longer, his eyes concealed by his helmet. Then he broke out in a slow grin. “She must have really freaked you out. How crazy was it on a scale from one to ten?”

“Shut the fuck up, Samuels,” he snarled, and kicked the Lawmaker into gear. 

Samuels had probably seen he was in no mood – as if he ever was – for his mouth. He had been quiet the rest of the patrol, following behind and covering as Dredd dispatched perps especially viciously. Dredd had taken a hit from some modded out Old World weapon that grazed his ribs and shortened his breath. He hadn’t even bothered using the ‘giver, and smashed the perp face first into a nearby wall with his free hand. Samuels said nothing.

But he must have requested to the Hall that Dredd be given leave for the rest of the day, that fucking traitor, because when he had returned, dripping with blood and grime, he had not been given any more patrols. So here he was, back to his quarters too soon, feeling like his skin was too tight.

He turned the shower on hot.

Dredd groaned low – the water felt good. His body was wired, muscles tense, and the sting of spray soothed a bit of that away. Without meaning to, Dredd relaxed slightly as the room filled up slowly with steam, the water working itself into his skin. It forced his mind to feel a little calmer.

Guilty, too.

The water pounding in his ears, Dredd tried not to think of it. Think of her.

Ever since Titan, he couldn't get her out of his head.

During training, out on patrols. He prided himself on being like a machine – efficient and unstoppable in his pursuit of justice.

But he’s been nearly shot three times now since he dumped her in the Isocubes, because he can’t stop thinking about her.

He respected her, after Peach Trees. He understood her. Gave her the badge because she was tough as nails underneath the mop of blond hair and delicate features. Looked forward to working with her to see how she would grow into a damn fine Judge.

But this.

He wasn’t sleeping right. Waking up gasping and hard, the afterimage of her naked skin dissolving in the dark corners of his room.

It made him so angry at her.

At himself.

Dredd leaned his head against the cool tiles of the shower wall.

She had looked scared when he had stepped closer this morning, angry and aroused and ready to shout at her some more or maybe finish what she started. She'd put her slender hand up, guarding herself, sinking back against the couch. 

She hadn't wanted this; she hadn't meant to do this to him.  

But god, her face. Her face as she touched herself in his lap and whispered what she wanted in the name of some fucked up test. She had been so close. So close to coming and he hadn’t even touched her-

Dredd smashed his fist into the shower wall, twice. The pain was good.

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think! This is an old story that I keep picking away at. I started it off on fanfiction.net and hopefully it will get some love here, too.


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